Shooting Stars
by scarlet phlame
Summary: One girl imagined stars and the other imagined colour. Neither expected what was coming. (This is a mash-up of two stories)


Once upon a time, there had been stars.

Well, apparently so, anyway.

For as long as Amelia could remember, there was no such thing as stars in the sky. The world outside was null, covered in an increasing swarm of black, dark, emptiness. The silent veil of night did not bring out any light of any sort, just darkness. There were no stars, yes.

But what about the sun?

This was Amelia's favourite star, because it always seemed to be there. It felt warm and happy... and Amelia liked warm, happy things. Her aunt didn't like stars. She said they were silly. But stars came out at night, and they lit up the sky, right? So this star must light up the day.

Amelia liked light.

The sun was always there, at night and day. She wondered, if the sun was a star, like her science teacher had told her, then the other stars must be there, somehow.

So she waited.

And waited.

There were no stars at night, but she hung up little lanterns and Christmas lights in her bedroom, covering up the odd crack in her wall with the stars. Every night, she'd sit and star at the ceiling, looking at the fake stars.

Except the day when that changed.

* * *

"Amelia, you'll be late for school!" her Aunt Sharon called.

"Comin'!" she yelled, stumbling on her own bunny-slippered feet and starting down the hall. Her red hair curtained behind her as she dove down the steps, approaching the door. She kicked off her night-shoes, and slipped on her sneakers. They weren't completely on, so when she walked she kicked her feet forward so she wouldn't step on the back of her Nike's.

Her bag was already waiting for her on the porch, so she grabbed that and slung one strap over her shoulder, taking off onto her lawn and over the little bridge into town. She smiled at the duckpond (which, ironically, never had ducks in it) and waved at a few of her dad and mum's old friends cheerfully, keeping her apt attention on the road.

Her shoes squeaked against the damp ground, and she continued to walk until she reached her school. The courtyard was buzzing with other kids and a couple of teachers as they made their way up the steps.

She leaned against a brick wall, slumping down on the steps and staring at the sky. She wished she'd had those goggles her teacher'd used to look at the sun, because it was so bright it hurt her eyes.

It was like that little firefly she'd once discovered. The one that went all rainbow colours, a myriad of fascinating swirls of yellow and the deepest hues of red. And then it became so bright she'd had to close her eyes, but she could still see it behind her eyelids. Aunt Sharon had said she'd just imagined it, but Amelia knew she hadn't, 'cos she'd pinched herself afterwards.

Amelia went to her classes, listening to her English teacher talk about a word along the lines of 'ludibund', which was thoroughly ridiculous because it didn't sound like a word she'd ever use. In fact, it didn't sound like a word in English at all.

She'd listened to her Geography teacher talk about Americans (seriously, a talking mouse with pink castles?) and Spain, which were also totally unrelated because the only way to get to other countries was by trains or Zeppelins. That guy that had invented that paper thing (the airplan, or the airplate, or the airplane or whatever) had obviously been deluded. Zeppelins were far better.

Then flew by Maths, and Second Language (yuck, German, why would she need to speak German), and then, finally, finally, Science.

Science class was like that American thing, uh, 'freedom'. Uh, yes, that was it. Freedom.

She loved Science, because that was where things made sense. She couldn't wait until she got to the higher levels and could start Astronomy, because that was what she'd wanted to do for ages since she was littler.

After class, her teacher called her in.

"You're getting exceptionally good grades, Amelia," he noted, pushing his black glasses up his nose. "Very good grades."

Amelia squirmed. "Yeah."

"But, I noticed you're getting Fs in all your other classes," he said, raising an eyebrow. "What's this? An A+ in Science, Fs in everything else?"

Amelia shrugged, putting innocent expression number 3 on display. "I dunno."

Mr. Watt sighed. "Okay."

He walked over to one of the brown mahogany cabinets, opening one up and taking an item on the shelf.

Amelia strained to see what he was carrying.

Mr. Watt placed it on the table, then nodded for Amelia to pick it up. She did.

"Uh, it's just a rock," she said.

"No," Mr. Watt said, his eyes twinkling. "It's a star."

Amelia raised an eyebrow.

"My grandfather's grandfather had it," Mr. Watt explained. "A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away, there were stars, apparently. But they all went out. Except this one, it crashed on Earth."

Amelia stared at it. "Was it passed down?"

"No. I found it in my attic," Mr. Watt confessed, "but the article's here, if you want it," he said, handing a crumpled up newspaper to the redhead.

She stared at the star in the jar, managing a grin. "Thank you, thank you!"

He smiled. "Don't ask anything of it. If anyone's wondering, it's just a rock."

She nodded and ran out of the school.

* * *

It was dark at the beginning.

That was honestly how it had always been. Miranda Johnson honestly couldn't remember a single day of her life when there'd been any color in her small, recluse world than black and white and many shades of gray.

Like many of her other peers, though, she could almost vaguely remember a world in which there was something but those two dull colors. But these notions were dismissed as nothing but the dreams of a child.

Even so, Miranda remembered. In her world, there were swirling, ethereal scenes of vision and phantasmagoria, pulchritudinous shades of a color that burned like a fire. A pale color, one that reminded her of peace and tranquility, and even sadness. And then a vague one, one that perhaps might not have existed at all. Hardly there.

In these dreams, she dubbed these colors. The fiery one 'Red', like the name of her closest friend, who had a burning personality like the tongues of a flame. The pale one 'Blue', after that one word for an emotion which is both tranquil and sad. And the one that was barely there, 'Yellow', like the name of her grandmother who had fallen ill with a degenerative disease and didn't even remember her own name.

She tangled her hands through her grayish black hair. It was one of the most popular colors this season, but she didn't like it. Her world seemed simply so... dead.

She picked up her charcoal pencil, then the white one and started to draw. She drew of that one thing she'd seen in her dreams. A rainbow.

There had been legends of a world of color before this land. Something had happened to a world filled with color. She wondered what could happen to turn such a place of such wonder and life into such a dark, gloomy place.

Miranda hid the picture in her folder in her black backpack once she'd gotten home. She didn't want her parents to see it; surely such fantasies about rainbows and color were some sort of child's play.

She forgot about the picture until about five hours later, when her mother was digging through her backpack, looking for a pencil to use to sign a contract. She pulled out the drawing and waggled a finger at the picture, disapprovingly.

"I thought I told you to stop thinking about these things," she said. "I'll have to call your father."

* * *

The rest happened in a blur. My dad came in about two hours later. He always works late. My mom showed him the picture. We had a long talk.

"You do realize there's no such thing as rainbows, right?" my dad speculates.

"Yeah," I say simply, inwardly scoffing. There has to be something more to this world than just two bleak colors. Assuming otherwise is just small-minded.

Completely oblivious to my thoughts, my parents bulldoze on.

"Look outside, sweetheart," my mother says. "Look. There's nothing out there. You could meander to the farthest corner of this world and find absolutely nothing."

"I know," I lie. "I don't think there are any rainbows. I don't know why I drew it. It was just a dare. I thought it might be funny."

She smiles. "Oh, sweetheart."

My mom saunters off. But my dad stays. He hands me something.

"I used to think like that when I was your age," he tells me. "My mom thought it was silly, too. But my dad... your granddad... he found this, washed up ashore of the White Sea. I thought you might want it."

He presses it into my hand and exits. I look down into my hands.

He's put this thing into my hand. It's sort of like the pencils we have at home. Except this one is made up of three colors. Red, blue, and yellow. Red on the tip, blue in the middle, and yellow at the end.

I stare at the colors for a long time. Then I smile.

Crayola. That's the name that's written on the end of the pencil. That's my grandfather's name.

When I'm rich and famous for bringing color to the world, that's what I'll call myself. Miranda Crayola Johnson.

* * *

Under strange circumstances was it that Miranda Johnson and Amy Pond met.

Amy Pond had been on one of her lectures about the solar system and her theories about the sun, and was coming home after a long night. Miranda Johnson had just finished with her art showcase when they bumped into each other.

Quite literally.

Two small objects flew through the air. One was a pencil, the other was a jar with a rock in it.

Miranda had winced, expecting the jar to shatter. Except it didn't. Amy smiled and picked up the pencil, handing it to Miranda who handed over the jar.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere?" Amy asked in her thick Scottish accent.

"Can't be," Miranda said, "can't be."

They both smiled and walked away, Amy's red hair bobbing behind her and Miranda's red scarf positively glowing.


End file.
